


At the Close

by Dumbledores Army (bloodofpyke)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofpyke/pseuds/Dumbledores%20Army
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-war, the golden trio and others trying to find their footing after it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Close

The changes are small, barely noticeable. Hermione no longer wears perfume, dumps the delicately veined bottles in the trash. Cho hesitates before shaking someone’s hand, and her heart seems to beat a little bit faster. Ron carries the Deluminator with him wherever he goes, his courage in a pocket. Ginny checks each room before walking in, and George turns to his side before he laughs, that split second of forgetting. Neville’s hands tremble sometimes, when he’s not paying attention, and he has to concentrate to get them to stop, wondering if maybe a day will come that they won’t. Harry grows a new shade of concern behind his glasses, his brow furrowed and the scar wrinkled, like this is a riddle he can figure out. Small changes, barely noticeable changes.

They’re waiting with bated breath for the days the changes fade away to dust, locked away with everything else they never mention. Waiting for the day that they can heave a relieved sigh, can look around them with a ghost of a smile, at this world no longer haunted by shadows.

(It never comes)

***

They never speak of it, as if by willing the war they can will themselves whole, unbroken. It doesn’t help, can’t fix anything, this staying silent, and so they drift through life, these child soldiers, fractured, cracked.

***

Hermione wanted to escape, needed to escape. Escape from the closeness of her bedroom, the blurred silences of her parents, from herself. She did, of course, Hermione could always be counted on to reach out and pluck her own rescue from thin air, but not far; she had only trudged down the street, to a Muggle coffeeshop, looking up as the door opened and in walked Harry. 

Her nose was buried in a book, but her eyes darted up as he walked in, and he smiled for a moment, thinking that some things never change. He wound his way through the maze of tables and chairs and dropped down across from her, hands pushing his glasses back, pushing through his tangle of hair. He looked the same, almost, a little thinner, maybe, a bit more haunted, but the difference was barely there, blink and you’d miss it. Hermione could see it, though; she knew better, knew him better. “You haven’t been sleeping,” Hermione said, marking her place in her book, sliding a mug across the table to him.

“Neither have you,” Harry volleyed back, hands wrapping around the mug.

She sighed, fingertips grazing the shadows under her eyes. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, and Harry nodded. “It’s been hard,” she told him. “Harder than I thought it would be.” And she paused, chuckling to herself, noting this, this small admission of weakness, one of her first.

He reached for her hand, hesitant, slow, and pulled in from her face back to the table, lacing his fingers with hers, feeling her heartbeat in her hands, in his hands. “It was never going to be easy,” he said, stumbling a little bit because this was never what he was good at, this boy who lived, this chosen one.

“I know,” Hermione answered softly, and they’re silent for a beat.

“How’s Ron?” Harry tried, to change the subject, to get Hermione smiling again, to hear how his best friend who never seems to return his calls has been. And it works; Hermione looked up at him, eyes crinkling, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost believe they were back at Hogwarts, sitting by the lake, or in the library maybe, and she would throw her hands up, words about Ron and Crookshanks and copied homework tumbling from her mouth. That was before though, he had to tell himself, before before before. He looked closer and saw that the crinkled were from concern, from anxiety, and he tried to smile at her, for her, but then she was talking and it didn’t seem to matter.

“He doesn’t talk,” she said, and the words were low, half a whisper, choked. She caught herself and went back, inking out what she had said. “No, that’s not fair; he talks. Just, just not about the important things. I saw him yesterday, and he talked about that time I smacked Malfoy, and the Quidditch World Cup, and I don’t _know_.” She sighed again, but it wasn’t a sigh, it was too shaky, too broken to be a sigh. “It’s too _hard_ and I just don’t _know_.” 

Their fingers disentangled, and Harry patted the back of her hands. “It’ll be okay,” he told her, but he, too, was spiraling, shaky and broken, because it was too hard and he just didn’t know.


End file.
